Without Proof

by Janet Sketchley

  Beside her, Aunt Bay studied another pad. “The hand-written letter may be nearly extinct, but people always need note pads.”

  They’d chosen elements from a few of Michael’s paintings: the white lilies, an antique bucket overflowing with water, ducks on a lake, a waterfall. As well as the muted pads, the boxes held full-colour note cards, desk calendars and fridge magnets. Michael sold the original of each painting, but he kept digital copies to use in smaller reproduction prints. Why not expand the idea and use snippets from a larger work for gift items?

  They had the second box half empty when the front door opened. “I’m back!”

  Aunt Bay called, “We’re in here, Michael.”

  Troy’s words about sabotage flooded Amy’s mind. Her hand froze around a bundle of magnets. What would Michael think? She listened as he went into the office and fiddled around.

  Then he came into the kitchen, hair still tossed from the breeze. His smile sweetened something deep in Amy’s heart.

  She’d loved Gilles, always would in a way. But this unassuming painter had no idea how she felt now. Would he ever stop grieving enough to see her as a woman instead of a co-worker — or his dead friend’s fiancée?

  Michael stepped toward her, smile sliding away. “Of all the times to leave my phone in the car. I just saw Troy’s messages. He had no business bringing up the accident.”

  Amy flipped her ponytail behind her back. “I don’t mind him writing something short for the paper. He seems nice. But did he tell you his sabotage idea? Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt Gilles?” She swallowed hard. “Or me?”

  Michael’s eyes darkened to almost brown, drowning the gold flecks Amy loved. “Nobody. Troy’s a great guy, but he tends to see conspiracies everywhere. Gilles wouldn’t want him planting ideas like that.”

  Aunt Bay pushed her chair away from the table. “Sit here, Michael, and tell us what you think of the new products. I need to get the vegetables cooking.”

  Chapter 2

  The two men worked their way around the small gallery, pausing at each painting, occasionally sharing a word or two.

  Watching them, Amy stepped closer to Michael. “Business customers are so different from tourists.”

  He shuffled his feet into a wider stance, but he still looked like a soldier standing inspection. “They make decisions faster.”

  What did these two see, besides the art? Did they notice the wide, aqua-stained floorboards? The pebbled glass ice-water decanter? The subtle splash of the tabletop fountain?

  Michael had designed his home gallery to complement the theme of his paintings. More than one tourist, after a glance at the paintings, had approached Amy with a whispered “Which way is the washroom?”

  The trickling water likely didn’t penetrate the Middle Eastern men’s focus. Reza Zarin bought paintings each year for his string of hotels. Today was the first time Amy had met his son, Ross. The younger man’s dress was less formal than his father’s suit and tie, but both wore an air of understated elegance. Business must be going well.

  The office phone rang.

  “I’ll get it.” Amy walked into the adjoining room. Yes, that cut off Michael’s escape, but he needed to practice his sales skills. She picked up the handset from the desk. “Stratton Gallery, Amy Silver speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Amy, this is Luc Renaud.”

  As if she knew other Lucs. As if she’d forget Gilles’ father. “Could I phone you back? We have clients in the gallery, and Michael will want me to do up the paperwork.”

  “If you answered your own phone earlier, I wouldn’t be using the business one.” He sounded weary.

  Amy sighed. The man had never recovered from his son’s death. She should have kept in better touch. Except his wife hated her. “I’m sorry, Luc. I promise to call you as soon as these gentlemen leave.”

  “You should never have done that interview.”

  “What — oh, is it in today’s paper? He didn’t mention you or your family, did he? I asked him not to.”

  “Honore is beside herself. Sabotage indeed! That reporter’s words are hurtful.”

  Amy stepped around the desk and sank into the chair. “Luc, I need to—”

  “Hurtful and untrue. It was an accident. Let it rest. Why bring back all our pain?”

  Her forehead dropped into her free palm. “I’ll read what he wrote, and talk to you later. Of course it was an accident. They checked out the wreckage, and they know what to look for. Now, I do have to go.” Amy disconnected the call before he could start another round.

  Troy’s visit had seemed so innocent, if his suspicions a bit far-fetched. Now she’d added to the grief of a kind man and given his wife another log for her fire. At least Amy didn’t see Honore anymore.

  Amy pushed up from the chair and grabbed her cane on the way back to the gallery. She tried not to use it in front of the tourists, who were prone to pity and questions. The Zarins wouldn’t gush over her. If they even noticed.

  They stood in the middle of the room now, turning to face each painting in turn. Some customers liked to see the effect from a distance as well as up close. A few more quiet words, then they stepped toward Michael. He met them half way.

  As Amy approached, Zarin Sr. pointed out a peaceful duck scene and a heron, stick-legs in shallow water, head poised to strike its prey. “I wish the ducks in a more rustic frame, like the one beside them.”

  Michael studied the two frames, then nodded. “I don’t have another frame that size, but I can have it for you by next week. Monday’s Labour Day, but we’ll be open.”

  Zarin nodded. “My son will collect both paintings on Monday, then. He will settle the paperwork now.”

  Ross Zarin matched his pace to Amy’s as she headed for the office. “You were in the crash with Gilles Renaud?”

  Luc’s words welled up in Amy’s thoughts and she held back a sigh. “You read the interview too?”

  Ross glanced at his father and Michael, still in conversation. “My father showed me the article today in the paper. That’s how I knew you. Gilles and I had mutual friends. I’m sorry for your loss. And your injury.” He passed Amy a business card. “If you ever need to talk about it with someone outside of the grieving process, please call me. Even just to have a change of scenery or a coffee. I understand grief.”

  “Thank you.” What else could she say? No amount of sympathy could change the past.

  Ross lowered his voice. “I was surprised by the sabotage angle.”

  “Me too. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sabotage implies enemies. Gilles had rivals, and — forgive me — ex-girlfriends, but I only heard good things about him. I wouldn’t worry about enemies.”

  ~~~

  Amy brought up the Halifax Herald website on the office computer. She didn’t do this often enough to know her way around the site, and Troy’s story would hardly be a main headline. Eventually she found it. “Plane Crash Survivor’s Second Chance at Life.” Gag. Complete with photo.

  She skimmed the article. No mention of the Renaud family. Good. And Troy had included the name of Michael’s studio as part of her new life. If this gave Michael’s business a bit of free advertising, she could live with the sabotage foolishness. Where was that part, anyway?

  Troy had included it as an almost throwaway line near the end. “Experts investigating the recent crash of a light aircraft in Maryland confirmed that certain methods of sabotage are virtually untraceable. Given Gilles Renaud’s skill as a pilot and the clear flying conditions at the time of the crash that claimed his life and maimed his fiancée, one can’t help but wonder if this was truly a random accident.”

  Maimed. Amy bristled at the word. Troy knew better than that. He must be playing the sympathy angle. She rubbed her hip. The surgeon and therapists had done a good job, and as long as she kept up with her exercises, it only hurt if she over-taxed herself.

  Michael poked his head in the door. “Is Aunt Bay back yet?”
r />   “Nope.”

  “Great. I’ll see if she can pick up more wood stain for that frame. I forgot we were almost out of that shade.”

  Amy glanced at the time. “Catch her fast. She’ll want to get out of the city before rush hour.”

  Michael nodded. He pulled his phone from his pocket and headed back the way he’d come.

  Phone. Amy should call Luc back. Try to calm him. She pushed back her chair and reached for her cane. Better listen to his messages first, and see if anyone else had called.

  Before leaving the gallery, she checked the parking lot. No customers arriving. If someone came while she was upstairs, she’d hear the gallery door chime.

  Amy climbed the stairs and went into her bedroom. Her phone lay charging on the bureau. She picked it up. Two voice messages from Luc, an hour apart. He was upset, but demanding an apology would only reinforce the suspicion of sabotage. Would a man used to getting his own way understand that sometimes the best solution was to do nothing?

  No other phone messages. Just a text from three days ago. Honestly, she had to remember to check this thing nightly. Except it had been weeks since the last message. This was from Gilles’ sister Emilie. Weekend plans? Call me?

  Amy set her phone back on the bureau and headed downstairs. She’d call from the office instead of using her pay-as-you-go cell.

  Back in the office, she brought up Emilie’s number on the land-line and hit talk.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Emilie, it’s Amy. I just got your text.”

  “Don’t you ever check your phone?”

  Amy closed the newspaper web page and checked the studio email. Two new things to delete, and one to read after her call. “I kept putting it down around the studio and losing it, so I leave it in my room. It’s not like I’m in high demand.”

  “Amy, it’s been long enough. You need to start living again. Find a new guy. You know Gilles wouldn’t want you to turn into a hermit.”

  “Not everyone’s a social butterfly like you two. I’m more of a wallflower.”

  Emilie’s snort sounded a lot like her brother. “You’re not even in the garden. You’re hiding on a shelf somewhere.”

  “I’m not hiding! I have a job, friends… I’m happy.” When was the last time Amy’d gone out anywhere that wasn’t related to studio business?

  “A job. With Michael. Friends. Michael and his aunt. It’s like he’s keeping you hostage or something.”

  Amy twisted her ponytail around the fingers of her free hand. “He’s just protective.”

  Emilie’s suggestion was even crazier than Troy’s sabotage theory. Which Amy was not going to think about. Gilles had no enemies, so it couldn’t be true.

  Could it?

  Chapter 3

  “Thank you!” The two middle-aged ladies left the gallery, each carrying a small bag of Michael’s new greeting cards.

  When the door closed behind them, Amy arched an eyebrow at Emilie. The girl’s short hair was dark today, with bright green tips. “Did you really think you could up-sell them to that painting by acting like you wanted to buy it yourself?”

  Emilie flashed a very Gilles-like grin. “Never hurts to try.”

  Amy shrugged. “Let’s go relax for a bit.”

  “You go. Michael and I can tend to customers.”

  Michael crossed the floor toward them. “If someone else comes, we’ll see them.” He glanced at Amy, then back to Emilie. “We were hustling around before you got here, packing for the trip.”

  “Trip?”

  “Didn’t Amy tell you? I have an exhibit in Toronto next weekend. Same spot as a couple of years ago.” He left the room, Emilie at his heels.

  Her words floated back to Amy. “…the year Gilles died.”

  Amy limped after them. Michael wasn’t tired, just sensitive enough to know that she was. And not wanting to point out her weakness to Gilles’ energetic sister. The year Gilles died. Was that why Michael invited Amy on this trip? They’d be home before the actual anniversary of the crash, but did he think repeating his part of the events might trigger Amy’s grief if she stayed behind?

  What about Emilie? The girl had fought her parents to attend university here in Halifax instead of at home in Montreal. She’d hero-worshipped Gilles. Now she pulled at Michael’s arm. “I didn’t know anyone here. You ran away, and Gilles died.”

  Michael turned, as if waiting for Amy to reach them. “I didn’t run away.”

  Emilie tipped her face to his. “You left us — left your best friend — just for your art.” She broke away from him and fled toward the living room.

  Colour washed Michael’s face, and his eyes squeezed shut.

  Amy touched his wrist, more gently than Emilie’s tug of war. “It hurt them that you didn’t say goodbye. Gilles understood. He said it was the right choice. You know Emilie, though.”

  Michael’s eyes popped open. He stared at Amy. “He knew.” He nodded slowly. “Of course he knew.” The whisper sounded strained.

  Amy’s heart went out to him. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out to relocate. But you’re doing well here. And this house is a fantastic setting.”

  One corner of his mouth quirked. “Just a bit far from the major markets.”

  “You didn’t leave because of someone here, did you?”

  His face froze. “What do you mean?”

  How could she say this that wouldn’t sound ridiculous? “You and Gilles were close. If someone made you leave town, he might also have sabotaged the plane.”

  Michael groaned. “I chose to leave. Gilles chose to fly. No sabotage. Period.”

  Emilie breezed back into the hallway. “Fancy Audi just pulled into the parking circle. Maybe this time I can sell a painting.”

  With his back to the girl, Michael rolled his eyes.

  They started for the gallery as the outside entrance chimed. Emilie opened the connecting door, flashing Amy an impish smile. “Young, rich and gorgeous. Go work your magic.”

  Michael’s mouth firmed. Instead of speaking, he hurried past them to greet the customer.

  Amy followed. “Emilie, you’re a nut. I don’t have any magic.”

  “Gilles thought you did. When you smiled.”

  “Gilles made me smile. Nobody else does.” Except Michael, on whom the “magic” didn’t work. Amy peeked into the gallery. “Ross Zarin. He came with his dad on Friday. Up-sell him if you can, but they seem kind of restrained to me.”

  Ross beamed over Michael’s shoulder as Amy and Emilie stepped into the room. “Two assistants, today.”

  Michael swept a hand toward them. “Ross Zarin, this is Emilie Renaud. ”

  Ross bobbed his head and shoulders in an abbreviated bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you both. I hope you’re enjoying the long weekend.”

  Emilie mimed mopping her brow. “Michael works us hard.”

  Michael snorted. “Everything’s ready to go, Ross. Would you join me in the office? I left the packing open on the piece we re-framed to be sure it’s what your father wanted. While you’re signing, I’ll close the wrap.”

  A shadow crossed Emilie’s face. “Could Amy do that? Your aunt was looking for you.”

  Ross reached for Amy’s elbow. “Lead on.”

  Before Amy knew it, she’d been escorted to the office chair and Ross was inspecting the unwrapped painting propped against the filing cabinet.

  “Perfect.” He dropped into the visitor’s seat across from her and picked up the invoice. He gave it a cursory scan and placed it back on the desk.

  Amy handed him a pen and showed him where to sign. “Are these for your local hotel?”

  Ross scrawled something bold and illegible. “I think Winnipeg. Or perhaps Edmonton. My father has a theory that if guests see scenes of another part of the country, they might decide to travel there as well. Staying, of course, in one of his establishments.”

  “You never know.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Ross gave a lazy grin. “My father
breathes strategy. He came to Canada as a young man with nothing, and now he’s training me to manage his empire.”

  “He must be proud of what he’s accomplished.” Amy slid the signed invoice into the file folder in front of her. “Do you have the same entrepreneur’s spirit, or would you rather be doing something different?”

  Ross stretched his legs out in front of him. “I never asked that question. A good Muslim son obeys his father, and I find the old ways… satisfying.”

  Because you’re a man. Had that shown on her face? Amy softened her features. “We have Muslim neighbours, but not from one of the stricter sects. The wife is allowed out on her own, and she covers her hair but wears North American clothes. She’s been very kind to me since the accident.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Footsteps sounded in the gallery. Amy looked up as Michael reached the office door.

  He walked over to the paintings. “Everything’s fine, I trust?”

  Ross stood. “Perfect.”

  Michael plucked a roll of tape from the desk and closed the packaging. “I’ll carry these to your car when you’re ready.”

  “I’ll get them.” Ross scooped the paper-wrapped paintings up in a fluid motion and turned to face Amy and Michael. “Thank you both. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  They escorted Ross to the door. When he’d gone, Amy turned to Michael. “What did Aunt Bay want?”

  He shrugged. “She put Emilie to work making a salad to go with dinner.”

  ~~~

  The salad’s vibrant greens and glossy cherry tomatoes complemented Michael’s homemade lasagna when it was finally time to eat. The scent had been teasing Amy for the past hour.

  Aunt Bay glanced around the heavy oak table and fixed her eyes on Emilie, whose hand reached for the garlic bread. “Let’s pray. Father, thank You for this fragrant meal and the hands that prepared it. Bless it to our use, and us to Yours. Amen.”

  Emilie snagged a thick slice of bread. “Sorry. I forgot.” She turned to Michael. “So when are you leaving?”